Imagining a Postcolonial classroomIn recent years, researchers of the Dutch project ‘Imagining the Nation in the Classroom: A Study of the Politics of Belonging and Nationness on St Maarten & St Eustatius’ have been studying and comparing constructions of hegemonic ideologies of belonging and nationness within the Dutch Caribbean. The project focuses on primary schools on the Caribbean islands of St Eustatius and St Maarten and is funded by the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (NWO). The research team consists of researchers from the Universities of Amsterdam (UvA) and Utrecht (UU) and the former University of St Maarten (USM) (See www.Imaginingthenation.org).On May 14th the Imagining the Nation in the Classroom research team held a seminar in Amsterdam on the topic “Diversity and the Construction of National Identity in Postcolonial Classrooms”. Using the idea of a ‘Postcolonial Classroom’ as a sensitizing concept, the multidisciplinary research team aimed to prompt a discussion on postcolonialism and education from an anthropological as well as educational academic perspective. The researchers and stakeholders came together in the main library of the University of Amsterdam.Participants were invited to explore “ways in which students are being socialized into national subjects’ in schools within the Dutch Kingdom” and to reflect on questions such as: how do teachers and students co-construct or challenge diversity and national identity within a postcolonial classroom? In what ways do teachers and students handle polarization or conflict due to diversity in the classroom? And, how do we as researchers deal with normative premises within these classrooms?

Dr. Vincent de Rooij (University of Amsterdam) gave the first keynote titled ‘Raising critical awareness of Self and Other as complex constructs in the postcolonial classroom’. He set the tone by posing a core question: What is actually the goal of formal education? Dr. de Rooij, a linguist and anthropologist specialized in youth, language and popular culture, suggested that schools should be places where children could reflect on their relation to others in order to construct a world where everybody has a ‘place’. In his own words, he advocated a classroom “in which the focus is no longer on simply categorizing, classifying (and, hence, dividing) but, instead, on the critical inquiry of these activities”.

Prof. dr. Mariëtte de Haan professor of education and pedagogy at Utrecht University gave the second keynote of the afternoon. In her engaging talk on ‘Polarization in Education: Directions for intervention’ she reflected on her own approach towards research with an interventionist agenda within education. Professor de Haan, who specializes in cultural diversity and learning, discussed her current research that aims to tackle the challenge of polarization within Dutch diverse classrooms in order to ‘form inclusive schools’. Her talk thus focused on the drawbacks of diversity within the classroom and on a problem of polarization and non-communication within the Dutch Educational system.

The validity- and the goals- of intervention in culturally diverse classrooms were central to the subsequent rebuttals and questions from the participants. Although both keynotes valued intervention in their own way, a question from the audience with regards to the role of the school in the emancipation of individuals also uncovered a divergence within the types of interventions each favored. The first keynote seemed to put more emphasis on personal development of the subject and the right to diverse viewpoints within these classrooms. The second keynote focused more on a perspective that favored intervention aimed at inclusivity and unification. This would lead to less confrontation and polarization. With regards to limits to cultural diversity, both speakers concurred that diversity within the classroom becomes a problem when communication becomes an issue and the conversation comes to a halt. Enigmatically, issues of underlying normative premises at the base of definitions of ‘communication problems’ remained relatively untouched here.

During the second half of the afternoon PhD students Jordi Halfman and Nicole Sanches - researchers within the Imagining the Nation project- led work sessions and presented cases they had encountered within their own research on respectively St Maarten and St Eustatius/ The Netherlands. Afterwards they put the participants to work in groups with questions and or prompts.For me, the Postcolonial Classroom seminar led to questions with regards to what needs to be un-learned within a diverse classroom and how hegemonic ideologies play a role in un-learning within such a classroom. The work sessions, where attendees were invited to stand, walk around and engage with the material world allowed a shift in the critical thought processes to include another level of perception. It also accentuated how issues such as perceptions of how you are supposed to act in a specific setting, at a specific moment in time, or how you are supposed to interact with specific materials are all able to influence the learning process. The focus of both speakers on informal and creative forms of education and learning was certainly brought to life in this manner.

Picture this: multiple goats perched on top of a rusty, abandoned car, their long necks stretching, heads reaching up to nibble on the last few leaves of a clearly nutrient deficient Indju (Mesquite) tree. To me, this image would be characteristic of ‘my’ native Caribbean space (the Dutch Leeward Antilles, specifically Curaçao). Yes, I do know, there are still some herds roaming the island. Now, it is honestly not my intention to idealize the hairy, odorous creatures of my goat riddled past. Without reverting to a migrant’s romanticizing of past and homeland or to a type of ‘keñismo’[i], I would like to remark that the sight of a herd of goats crossing the street is an increasingly rare sight on 21st century Curaçao.

I grew up surrounded by these goats. Ok, that might be a tad exaggerated, but I did deal with flesh and blood goats[ii] on a daily basis. As a child I helped to collar goats with makeshift wooden collars so they wouldn’t escape into the mondi (bush). I remember herds of goats blocking roads, goats looking for food and shelter from the burning sun, goats lying in the shade watching us wearily. I remember the sight of my beloved dog after he mauled a goat. The shock, the disgust and at the same time the secret pride at his fierceness. I remember the washing out of the dog’s bloody mouth with the garden hose in an attempt to obscure the grizzly evidence of the goat killing. My co-carnivorous Caribbean natives will no doubt also relish when remembering the taste of delicious goat stew. My preference goes to Kabes ku igra (goat’s head and liver) soup -which is arguably the GOAT[iii] goat dish. Very enjoyable indeed. Meanwhile, the goats enjoyed themselves nibbling at the few green plants left. I remember them sneaking up to the house and eating my mother’s precious bougainvillea beneath the burning mid-day sun. Years later I started to connect the lack of lush green on the island to the omnipresence of these goats.

Maybe you’re wondering why this piece about goats. Well, just like no makeshift collar can stop a really determined goat from escaping through the fence, often there is no reeling in the wandering mind of an academic. Even one inspired by a particularly interesting lecture. As it turns out, these goats were on my mind while listening to the informative and enlightening account on ‘Critical Thinking in Curaçao and the Construction of Forgetting’ of the distinguished Richard Ansano at the University of Amsterdam this month.

During his lecture Ansano emphasized the importance of thinking beyond academia: “Critical presence is the presence that tries to restore balance”. He discussed projects promoting the development of critical thinking and the formulation of collective identity on Curaçao in the 20th and 21st century. I would like to highlight two points of interest: Firstly, in his lecture he pinpointed a movement of Dutch Caribbean youngsters directed towards (re)discovering ‘their identity’. This generation, he said, was “bringing something new to the table”. He also emphasized the importance of the idea of ‘honoring the elders’ and of the past in these new (re)constructions of identity.Secondly, he offhandedly referred to non-human critical agents, which of course made me wonder about his take on non-human agency in a Curaçaoan setting and on how non-human agents could aid in the development of critical thinking within the Curaçaoan community. Answering my question, Ansano referred to nature/vegetation as one of these non-human agents and stressed on the importance of a “restoration” of people’s relationship with nature. This was the moment the goats entered my mind, wandering, nibbling and being served up with half a scotch bonnet and slice of lime.

Ansano’s accounts of the need for restoration of balance between humans and nature and of Curaçaoan youth’s emphasis on past heroes, both seemed to involve a sense of reverence with regards to the past. From my perspective, one key element of both creativity and of the daring act of critical thinking, is the opposite: irreverence. When his account collided with my image of the goats devouring the island vegetation and of us devouring the flesh of goats, I felt compelled to question how we can remain critical and creative within a context that centralizes a reverence or (partial) restoration of the past.

This is why In the spirit of the playful, irreverent creative act that is critical thinking, I would like to suggest a parallel between my goats and the concept of choosing and idealizing specific historical figures as teachers and heroes in the construction of collective identity and ask: is there room within the (re)construction and (re)valorization of the past for contradictory nature devouring goats and or imperfect goat eating heroes (GOATS)?

​[i] A disease of ‘complaintism’, diagnosed by Curaçaoan scholar Richinel Ansano in his engaging keynote at the 14th International Conference on Caribbean Literature in Curaçao (2014) titled Beyond Gentle Giants and Suffering Citizens: Crafting the Courage to Write a New Nation by Writing the Land.

[ii] Not to be confused with LL Cool J’s use of the acronym GOAT which totally coincidentally happens to stand for Greatest Of All Time.

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In 2014 I stepped into the Curaçaoan nursing home ‘Bethesda’ armed with a kwarta (four-string musical instrument). A few days earlier, my kwarta teacher Win had mentioned that his uncle –the great Curaçaoan musician Macario Prudencia- was staying in that nursing home. Macai wasn’t doing well, but he would greatly appreciate a visit from other musicians.For me, 2014 had been musically characterized by the work of Macai. No wonder I jumped at the prospect of making music with the person who had gifted Curaçaoans with songs like Raspa Bill,Bròs bròs and Den bo Bèshi. Macai’s remarkable Salsa Antiana and his legacy of ingeniously worded musical jokes have prompted generations of Curaçaoans to dance and laugh.Macai’s songs have an infectiously humoristic quality. Still, I must admit to experiencing a sense of hesitancy when singing these songs. As a cultural researcher, I see an underlying admiration of macho behavior - also present in some of Macai’s songs- reflected in Curaçaoan popular culture. Seen from this perspective, the ‘comedic’ images of women as immoral and as untrustworthy gold-diggers provides a less than flattering view of part of Curaçaoan culture. Namely the part that involves issues of gender inequality and negative stereotyping.Take for instance the text of one of my favorite Macai songs: Raspa Bill, in which Macai, the main character in this humorist drama finds out that his girlfriend had sex with a certain Bill. The father, apparently responsible for his grown daughter, doesn’t know about this. Meanwhile, it turns out the mother helped to hide her daughter’s transgression. Finally, Macai is no longer interested in the girl, saying, “A otro perro con ese hueso” (Throw that bone to a different dog).

This type of ‘innocent jokes’ are often used by artists within Curaçaoan popular culture. While the goal of these discourses appears to be simple entertainment, they simultaneously add to the normalization of negative stereotypical male-female patterns. Men are Casanovas. Women are objectified or represented as untrustworthy and money-hungry elements who need to be (sexually) controlled. Gay people are often represented as ‘clowns’. The audience knows that the joke lies in ‘divergence’. The ones who diverge from the implied norm are met with disapproval and ridicule. In the context of heritage and thinking on the role of art it is important to look critically at this misogynistic side of Curaçaoan popular culture and allow it to become a topic of discussion.

During my visit to Macai, he spoke openly of his fame as a ‘ladies-man: “They say I broke up many families, but I also brought many together”, he joked. This makes the topic so complicated: with his music late Macario Prudencia earned a special place in Curaçaoan cultural history. Simultaneously, it is important to reflect critically on the messages of popular songs created and performed by our–often male- musical hero’s so we can finally grow towards a society where issues of stereotypical gender representation and double standards for males and females have no place. This starts with self-reflection -for example upon what we find funny and why.

As a researcher and performer I love the fact that I can’t take a walk through the streets of my native island Curaçao without hearing and feeling the deep vibrations of a base. The hypnotizing, spooky sounds of the barí (drums) and chapi (metal percussion instrument) floating on the night wind elicit memories of long nights of musical rapture. On the Caribbean island music and night are one. However, not everyone shares my fascination.The last month and a half ‘Curaçaoan social media’ have been turned upside down by two signature petitions regarding music at night. The first petition was aimed at an annual Christmas eve party on the island. Some residents of Brakkeput Abou –a neighborhood known for its affluent, often European Dutch residents- complained about noise disturbance originating from two nearby party sites and started an initiative to prevent the all night long party to recur in the same manner the following year.This first petition led to a counter-initiative to ‘stop the complaining about noise disturbance. The counter-petition went viral within the community. Music is part of Curaçaoan culture, the initiator argued. She is supported by thousands of Curaçaoans who signed her counter-petition. Two messages were clear from her supporters: music is just part of ‘our culture’ and the Dutch are not allowed to change this.Although the group that started the first initiative portray their complaint as a reasonable protest against a violation of their private space, the overwhelming reaction from society shows that there is more at play here. Many locals interpret the issue in a framework of historic and ongoing Dutch repression and Dutch sense of superiority, phenomena that they also link to the unbalanced relations within the Kingdom.It’s no surprise that criticism of music in particular triggers such a reaction on the island. Afro-Curaçaoan music (tambú) was shunned in the past by the ex-colonizers, the state and the church. Tambú has had to deal with a negative image, namely that people who play and dance the tambú were ‘not decent’. However, in the last decennia, there has been a turn towards revalorization of Afro-Curaçaoan culture and of music in particular. Curaçaoans are resisting any repression of ‘their music and culture’.The two petitions thus uncover tense underlying relations in Curaçaoan society. Divisions based on skin color and wealth that stem from a colonial past have perpetuated themselves in current Curaçaoan society due to the influx of new, wealthy European Dutch migrants. The efforts of the inhabitants of the Brakkeput neighborhood to put a stop to ‘noise disturbance’ calls forth the image of a parallel elite community within a broader Curaçaoan community that lacks connection with the sensibilities regarding the colonial past and the repression of Afro-Curaçaoan music.Simultaneously, the viral dissemination of the counter-action shows that the revalorization of (Afro-)Curaçaoan culture is taking hold and that Curaçaoans will raise their voices when this culture seems to be in peril. Social media offer a great platform for Curaçaoans to formulate their vision of ‘their own culture’ and to emphasize the value of their culture and music.